


retrograde

by duchamp



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchamp/pseuds/duchamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His track record clearly delineates that he should steer clear of any attachments, emotional or otherwise. But there’s a slight hope—involuntary, unavoidable—in the back of Bond’s mind: hope that the past doesn’t always have to inform the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	retrograde

For all that he doesn’t believe in a life after death, ghosts plague Bond.

His parents. Vesper. M.

He chases them away with alcohol and sex. Neither of which have to be mutually exclusive. (And usually, at least in Bond’s case eight-eight percent of the time, aren’t.) There’s many women, a few men. All beautiful, all easy. Sometimes they’re too easy, leaving Bond afraid that he runs the risk of being bored.

Which would render his self-prescribed cure null and void.

He needs a challenge; he needs the push and pull. He needs pain: because it’s familiar, because he knows what to do with it. He wouldn’t know what to do with quiet words and a gentle touch. He wouldn’t know what to do with soft kisses or even softer hands. (He used to, could swear he did—but that knowledge went with long, dark hair and a smile that more closely resembled a playfully disdainful smirk.)

 

\--

 

“What’s it all for?” Vesper asks him while he’s alone with a glass in hand, drinking. Always, always drinking. Vesper, who is grey and sharp and unrelenting—who is as real as she ever was when she was breathing.

“Patriotism,” Bond replies.

 

\--

 

It’s for the paychecks that say _kill elegantly,_ _bleed a little more_ —the ones that pay for his impeccably tailored suits, for his particularly nasty habit of drinking hard and fine liqueur like it’s water. It’s for the paychecks that allow him to afford the upkeep on the minimalist penthouse that he hardly ever sleeps in. (Though when he does, he always has some lovely someone to sleep with him.)

It’s for the thrill. (There’s no better high.)

It’s for the feel of a new, clean gun against his palm.

It’s for Queen and country.

 

\--

 

It’s to justify everything he’s lost and will continue to loose. If he doesn’t keep going, what would have been the point of it all?

 

\--

 

There’s no point, that’s the tragedy.

 

\--

 

The boy is a whisper—skin, curls, bones, and teeth dressed in jumpers and overcoats that hang on him, always a little too big.

The boy is a terrifying thing—his smile is sweet and he looks easily breakable, but usually the ones who appear the weakest are the most dangerous.

Bond knows this as an innate fact; it’s the oldest trick in the book. A target can appear unassuming, even vulnerable—then _bam_ you’re bleeding out with a bullet in your back.

 

\--

 

Like a hound when it smells blood, when Bond sets his sights on someone he does so with razor-sharp focus. When he pursues _,_ he makes damn sure he gets what he wants.

This is how it starts:

“I would like to buy you a drink,” he says.

Q doesn’t respond and studiously ignores him, face lit-up by the light of his laptop. Bond smiles, rejuvenated. He likes this game. He goes to the bar alone and leaves with a woman in a skin-tight satin dress on his arm.

“Lunch?” He asks, three days later.

“I’m not hungry,” Q replies. (Although Bond sees him unwrapping a turkey sandwich at his desk later in the day.)

Bond advances, Q retreats. This goes on for quite some time.

Then Bond comes back from Madrid, after rubbing shoulders with death and saying _another time, thank you._ He buries a knife in his enemy’s head and singlehandedly saves the entire fucked-up enterprise at the last second. They don’t call him the best for nothing.

“I would like to take you home with me,” he says.

Q sighs, takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose. He slides them back on, and begins walking ahead. “Lead the way 007,” he says over his shoulder—tone implying _do, please, keep up._ And Bond catches up with him in two long strides, satisfied.

Game over.

 

\--

 

The penthouse is twenty-five stories up, and the elevator ride is as long as it is silent.

Bond opens the door for Q, and takes his coat. He doesn’t offer him a pre-rehearsed line, though he does offer him a drink. Scotch, neat.

 

\--

 

The space is encased in glass; there are no curtains. The color palette is kept to a bare minimum, black and grey and white. The furniture and appliances are all top of the line, all Italian: suede, steel, and porcelain. And, of course, there’s London spanning out into the night, view and voyeur both.

The city lights appear like ornaments in the distance.

 

\--

 

“Sparse,” Q comments as he surveys the place, his fingertips skimming the surface of the kitchen counter. He quirks a smile, and it leaves Bond feeling a little weak in the knees. He knows he’s playing with fire, even though the boy is nearly half his age and possibly weighs a hundred pounds or less soaking wet.

But, wasn’t that the allure of all of this in the first place?

Bond steps forward and kisses Q, and it’s more of a bite than anything. “I was wondering when you’d come around,” he says.

“Seeing that I have,” Q says—and his voice sounds remarkably unaffected even as he moves up in a fluid line against Bond’s thigh—“what are you going to do about it?”

 

\--

 

They meet after work, when Bond is actually _at_ work, when he’s not jetting off to one country after another.

It becomes routine, when Bond’s in London: he takes Q out, opening doors instead of pulling triggers, and drives to restaurants instead of unzipping dresses to gather information. He laughs and he doesn’t threaten, he relaxes and he doesn’t run. He tries to pay for dinner every time, but one night Q has their waiter bring him the check and holds out his hand to stop Bond from objecting.

To put it more explicitly, they fuck. After awhile, it becomes something Bond expects. Looks forward to, even. Which is unfortunate, a complication. So he tries to curb the urge, he really does.

He puts a stop to the dinners. He avoids going near Q-branch unless he absolutely has to.

He goes to M, and requests to be given more missions. “Well,” M says—as if Bond is a spitfire dog being granted more leash—“you only had to ask.”

 

\--

 

Q stays as the voice in Bond’s ear, just no longer as a warm body in Bond’s bed. He hands Bond his toys and trinkets with dexterous fingers, and if Bond happens to look up at Q in the hopes of seeing some sort of tell on that angular face and under that mop of unruly hair, he always finds nothing. No hurt, no disappointment, no interest. Nothing. Q stays cold, impassive, and professional.

Bond can’t stop thinking about it, and frankly it pisses him off.

 

\--

 

He tries to fix the problem, but the problem apparently doesn’t want to be fixed.

He’s in Germany and there’s a woman, who’s name he can’t remember, who he meets at the bar of the hotel where he's staying. She has auburn hair and tanned legs and a green glint to her eyes, just the right side of dangerous. He takes her upstairs and spends the better part of the evening between her legs. She smells of lilies and hardly makes a sound at all when she comes.

“Who were you thinking about?” She asks him after, re-touching her makeup.

“I’m sorry?” Bond’s hands tremble slightly as he fixes his tie, and he thinks somewhere he can hear Vesper laughing at him.

The woman shakes her head as if Bond has missed the point. She walks over, places her hands on the lapels of his jacket, and kisses his neck. “Don’t worry sweetheart," she says, "I don’t mind. I hope it was as fantastic for you as it was for me.” 

 

\--

 

“You’re not an impenetrable fortress, James.” M tells him as he shines his shoes and cleans his gun. She looks at him like he's disappointed her, and he thinks he probably has. The string of pearls around her neck glisten under the lamplight. 

“Stop scolding me, you’re just a figment of my imagination. And, what about being unprofessional?”

M just shrugs her shoulders. “Everyone needs someone,” she says.

 

\--

 

With how difficult Q is to read, it’s a shot in the dark. But, Bond figures he might as well try.

“What’s this?” Q asks as Bond sets down a cup of tea—steaming and steeped just right, one sugar and no milk.

“An apology.”

 

\--

 

The concierge calls to inform him that there’s a young man waiting downstairs asking for a Mr. Bond, and whether or not they should let him up. Bond tells them yes, and tries not to walk to the door too quickly when he hears a light knock.

Q’s standing in the hallway, wearing an ill-fitting brown jumper. Which, despite being completely hideous, doesn’t stop Bond from finding it absurdly attractive—and from wanting to tear it off of Q immediately to get to the skin underneath.

But Q looks poised to say something, so Bond supposes that will have to wait.

“First off,” Q says in a clipped tone, “I’m not used to being dropped like last week’s news. Are we doing this or not?”

Bond offers a nod as a reply, and Q comes in and shuts the door behind them.

 

\--

 

He’s never done this before.

He’s on his stomach, sheets clenched in his hands, rubbing against the mattress underneath him, trying to chase some sense of friction. Q has only two fingers inside him, and Q’s in absolutely no rush, taking his time. There’s the press of his tongue against Bond’s spine, marking a path up and then down.

It’s not rough or fast or painful, or any of the other things Bond usually craves and initiates when he’s in control. Still, with Q’s body draped over his, Bond feels like he’s coming out of his skin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I only posted a fic two days ago, and then I wrote this last night. I usually don't write this fast, but I guess the muse is cooperating. And what originally started out as me just wanting to write porn without plot developed into this—with hardly any porn… and nothing but plot? I DON’T EVEN KNOW. Also, there might come a day when I’ll be able to write James Bond without aggressive atheism, but that day is not today.
> 
> If there's any interest, I do have some ideas about possibly continuing this. There are some plot bunnies scurrying around.
> 
> On Bond’s hallucinations: Auditory hallucinations tend to exhibit themselves more in those with post-traumatic stress disorder. Physical hallucinations are atypical, though they have been noted to happen.


End file.
